Who's retarded now?

"Shouldn't that duck have moved by now?" I'm calling to my daughter while looking out the kitchen window and thinking, "Great. A dead retarded duck."

The retarded ducks are an oddity we've become accustomed to since moving in across the street from this lake. And they are too retarded, thanks for objecting. Since they're mallards, I know it is a gang of boy ducks who sometimes wander from front yard to front yard to front yard on the non-water side of the street looking for what, girls? No girl ducks out on the county highway where they always end up, looking disoriented, but then again, there is a beer distributor back across the way. I need a better example. How about the original retarded duck pair, a girl and a boy, who always insist on sitting cozily together smack in the middle of the street? Could that ever be comfortable even without the exhaust fumes and constant near-misses? Retarded. At least the backyard is shady, so even though it makes me shake my head and smile when they end up there--it's just not where ducks go--at least it seems slightly less retarded. Or maybe they just feel at home here.

Which brings me to this morning, and the duck which had not moved. I haven't walked all the way out there, to the resting spot under that tree, but I did go out on the deck, and peer hard over the rail. I came back with the news.

"Madison, that is not a duck." She went outside and looked for herself.

"Well, don't I feel silly." (It appears to be some kind of a box, with I don't know what green thing sticking out of it. A further mystery for later in the day.)

"The ducks aren't all that's retarded around here," I think. That and, "tomorrow, I definitely get new glasses."